Chapter 4

Phillip stood on the steps of his ancestral home and stared off into the distance, his hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the countryside visible over the walls for bad weather and enemies. He saw neither, which he considered to be an auspicious start to the day. A pity his proximity to the front door made it all but impossible to ignore the less-than-enthusiastic conversings going on there.

“Think he’ll make it inside Haemesburgh’s gates this time?”

“Not bloody likely.”

Phillip attempted with renewed vigor to ignore the discussion, if discussion it could be called. His cousins had gathered to see him off, no doubt eager to vomit out all the stupidity lodged between their ears before they reached anything useful they might want to offer. The tenderhearted ladies of the keep had been content to send him forth with encouraging words given next to the warmth of the fire inside. Unfortunately, outside he was left with his sire, an uncle, and a gaggle of cousins who would have been wiser to have kept their bloody mouths shut.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t covered him in arrows instead of, well, you know,” a young voice piped up.

“Mayhap that is her plan this time,” offered a second lad who had scarce learned to feed himself. “But no doubt Phillip has already considered that.”

Phillip glanced over his shoulder at Samuel and Theopholis de Piaget, both with barely ten years to their credit, and gave them a brief, approving nod. They might have been young, but they were wily. He always slept better when he knew they had been contained somewhere. He had the feeling his father—and theirs—did not sleep at all with them near.

The rest of the family who stood gathered around him were perhaps less unnerving, but far more irritating.

Or perhaps that was unfair. There were a few who were irritating, a handful of others he wouldn’t have wanted to meet behind the stables on a dark night, and one or two whom he would have trusted to guard his back no matter the cost.

And perhaps that was more unfair still. He knew, hard-hearted lout that he was, that any member of his family would have stepped between him and danger without hesitation. They would have mocked him endlessly afterward about having spared him the mussing of his clothing, but at least he could say they would have been there for him.

“Are you sure you want to send him off alone?”

Phillip turned to look at his uncle, Nicholas, who was watching him whilst barely suppressing a grin.

“Lest the venture prove dangerous, of course,” Nicholas added. “Might be good to send along a lad or two for company.”

“He’s off to subdue a woman,” Robin said with a snort. “If the lad can’t manage that on his own, well...” He threw up his hands. “It’s a woman, Nick, not an army.”

“And women are weak-kneed, delicate creatures,” Nicholas agreed.

Robin looked over his shoulder quickly, no doubt to make certain his own delicate bride wasn’t standing behind him, then made a few blustering noises. “Of course. He should be able to manage this with a few stern words.”

“Can he dredge up any of those, do you think,” Nicholas asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully, “or has he spent too much time at the lute?”

“I wouldn’t recognize the effects of such foolishness, having spent my time more usefully in the lists,” Robin said archly. “You, however, did spend an unholy amount of your youth plucking at strings and causing the rest of us to run very far away, generally to the lists, in order to escape your efforts.”

“So you benefit yet again from my altruism.”

“And your lack of ability to keep your instrument in tune.”

Phillip was just sure they would come to blows soon, but unfortunately they seemed to remember just in time that they had joined forces to vex him. He listened to them speculate on his chances of success—and his own labors with out-of-tune strings—for only a moment or two before he had to descend to the courtyard where he might have a hope of not listening to them any longer.

Unfortunately, he didn’t go far enough. The good-natured jesting at his expense continued, though with more enthusiasm than he might have otherwise expected. That, he supposed, should have unnerved him. It was something the dotards in his family did when they were truly worried about the outcome of any given skirmish. He didn’t imagine his father would send an army along after him to aid him, but with Robin of Artane, one just never knew.

He turned to something he could control, which was who he intended to take along with him. He looked at the lads who had gathered around him, just to make certain he wasn’t going to wake up on the morrow and find that one of them had tucked himself into a saddlebag.

His brother Kendrick was there, of course, though he wasn’t dressed for travel. That was a good thing, for Phillip would have sent him back inside the hall otherwise. His youngest brother, Jason, was standing next to Kendrick, looking sober with his new spurs clinking at his heels. He was also, very wisely, merely dressed for a chilly morning. But that was where the good sense of his relations seemed to end.

There were two of his aunt Amanda’s children standing there, Rose and her younger brother Jackson. They had been at Artane for reasons he honestly hadn’t taken the trouble to discover. They tended to come and go so often that he never questioned why they did anything. At the moment ’twas possible they were simply intending to turn for their father’s keep, but there was something about the way they were watching him that made him uneasy. He frowned at them, had very bland looks in return, then decided he would put his foot down with them later.

He looked at the handful of others standing there. The group was finished—and he meant that in very deed—by a selection of his uncle Nicholas’s children including Connor and the twin evils of Theopholis and Samuel de Piaget.

Phillip considered them all, looked at their gear, then pointed at his eldest female cousin, Rose.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.

“You’re dressed in hose and you’ve cut your hair again,” Phillip said sternly. “I know what that means.”

“You might need a woman’s touch—” She turned on her brother Jackson before he could speak. “Don’t add anything.”

Jackson held up his hands. “I wouldn’t dare, though Phillip has it aright. This could be a dodgy business. Not women’s work, surely.”

“Aye,” Rose said, “avoiding whatever disgusting missiles she intends to fling at him will be a heavy labor indeed. Nay, what you louts need is a woman with you to keep you from making complete arses of yourselves. I will come along to make certain Lady Heather understands the magnitude of my cousin’s desirability as a husband.”

Phillip had to concede there was something to that, but the thought of being responsible for a woman of Rose’s beauty and deviousness... well, that was enough to give him pause. He looked at her and shook his head slightly.

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I don’t dare.”

“I could stand behind you,” she said quietly. “With a bow.”

“Your father would kill me.”

“He wouldn’t know.”

Jackson snorted. “Our father always knows.”

Phillip looked at Rose and gave thought to what her sire would do did she run afoul of trouble. Jackson of Ravensthorpe wouldn’t kill him, he would murder him slowly, painfully, and, if he could have managed it, repeatedly. Then again, it wasn’t as if they were headed into battle. It was simply a peaceful journey to a castle that was his by agreement, peopled with men and one particular woman who had sworn loyalty to him. What could possibly go wrong?

He glanced at his sire, who was only regarding him steadily, as if he were stepping back from the fray. Phillip looked at Rose, sighed, then ignored her own sigh of relief coupled with triumph. ’Twas little wonder her father could deny her so few things. Her brother would come along to guard her, if nothing else. Besides, she had her own collection of lads following her, lads who tended to remain in the shadows and only appear at night when they could inspire the most terror, like bogles from the forest. She would be safe enough.

That left him with his uncle Nicholas’s children to sort. The eldest, James, had other things to be seeing to, Phillip knew, which complicated and simplified things at the same time. James would have been extremely useful in a fight, but he was too pretty by half and might have been distracting for the lady of Haemesburgh.

That left him with Connor and, as he had noted with no small bit of apprehension, Connor’s younger brothers, Theo and Sam. The three were dressed for a long journey and their father was looking very relaxed. Obviously that trio of troublemakers was intending to come along. Phillip didn’t bother to try to discourage them. Connor would have ignored him and the little ones... well, they would have come along anyway and popped up unexpectedly and left him squeaking like a gel. He knew that because they’d done it before, repeatedly, damn them to hell for it.

“I can see the party is shaping up nicely,” Kendrick said, stepping forward and putting his hand on Phillip’s shoulder, “but I feel there are things that still need my attention.”

Phillip shrugged off his brother’s hand and suppressed the urge to acquaint him with the feeling of a fist in his mouth. “I—”

“Am too tenderhearted to lay out what must be done,” Kendrick finished, “we know, Phillip. So allow me to inform your company about the near-impossible task before them.” He cleared his throat importantly. “A siege is in the offing.”

Phillip would have interrupted, but there was no use. Once Kendrick had marched into the fray, there was no stopping him. The cousins were accustomed to treating everything spewing forth from his mouth as holy edict, so all Phillip could do was stand to the side and watch, wishing he had such a spellbinding gift. The perils of missiles flung over the wall were described, the importance of presenting Phillip in the best light possible touched upon briefly, and the promise of spoils to be enjoyed dangled before the lads until they were fair stamping with impatience to be off and doing. Above all, Kendrick stressed the importance of comporting themselves in a manner that would invite lays to be sung over their deeds. Phillip listened until he simply couldn’t bear it anymore.

“Chivalry is always convenient,” he began, “and—”

“And it can ofttimes be fatal,” Kendrick interrupted. “Which in this case is quite possible.”

Robin and Nicholas seemed to find that terribly amusing, which set the bolder of the cousins to feeling comfortable enough to add their own opinions to the discussion. Phillip swept them all with a look, which they ignored. He found himself flanked suddenly by his uncle Nicholas’s identical spawn.

“Why don’t you kill them?” they asked, in unison.

Phillip shivered in spite of himself. Even though he knew they couldn’t possibly be demons, there were times...

“They’re not taking this adventure very seriously,” Sam added.

“I don’t think they’re taking anything very seriously,” Theo corrected. “Listen to them.”

Phillip could hardly avoid that. He glared at his father and uncle, then looked at his young cousins.

“I love my mother and my auntie Jen,” he said grimly, “and I hesitate to rob them of their husbands, else I would do them in. But one thing I will do is absolutely not take them with me.”

“But you’ll take those two,” Nicholas said, gesturing to his sons.

“Aye, please,” Robin added. “Before they drive me mad.”

Phillip wondered what his sire thought the lads would do for him save a similar service, but he had a soft spot for his wee cousins and imagined giving them a bit of an adventure couldn’t be a bad thing.

He made note of three other souls heading toward the stables—two lads and the heiress of Ravensthorpe pretending to be a lad—and sighed. A handful of not only his own men but a few of his father’s fiercer lads were already waiting by the gates, so he supposed he would manage to return sons and daughter to their respective parents safely enough. He paused, then looked at his father leaning negligently against his front door.

“Thank you for the loan of your men.”

“My pleasure,” Robin said with a grave smile. “Best of luck with your quest. Send word if you need an audience. I don’t imagine you’ll need any aid.”

Phillip shifted, more annoyed by his unease than he should have been. “She’s a woman,” he said with a shrug. “How much trouble can she possibly be?”

He turned and strode off before he had to listen to any chuckles sounding from the vicinity of two seasoned men who had certainly had their own share of adventures with their wives and daughters. Phillip had no intention of beginning his own brush with marital bliss on anything but the right foot, which meant he would instruct his bride on how she should comport herself and things would proceed exactly as he intended.

Chucklewas such a terrible word. It didn’t quite describe the gasping guffaws that Robin and his brother were currently engaging in. Obviously they’d had too much ale for breakfast. Phillip promised himself a good chat with the pair about their consumption of the like upon his triumphant return.

For the moment, he supposed it was best to trot out the front gates before he killed them both.

···

He had one brief stop to make before carrying on for the day and it was made without fanfare and without company. He knew the garrison knights were uncomfortable with the halt, but he left them on the road and struck out on his own. He had a task ahead of him that would require, he feared, all the aid he could muster.

He knocked on the door of a small stone house. It opened and less smoke than usual poured out, leaving him only with watering eyes, not doubled over with coughing. He left his squire and his two youngest cousins standing outside—realizing only then that they had followed him without asking leave—and entered when bid.

He made himself as comfortable as possible on a stool by the fire and couldn’t help but remember all the times he’d done the same thing as a lad, sitting by Berengaria of Artane’s hearth wherever it had found itself. She’d spent her share of time in other keeps, true, but he suspected the little stone house in the woods was where she had felt most at home. His grandfather, Rhys, had built it for her as a place of refuge when the castle walls had become too confining, and he’d made certain no villager dared entertain any idea that she was anything but a purveyor of herbs.

That had been made substantially more difficult, as it happened, by the two bickering companions who had sought refuge with Berengaria as time had worn on. It was perhaps fortunate that the three of them lived so close to the shadow of Artane’s walls and wore the favor of the castle’s master as a shield. Phillip didn’t like to think about what might have become of them otherwise. Peasants were a suspicious lot, which he supposed he could understand. There were things in the world that were truly inexplicable.

He didn’t like to think on why he knew that, truth be told.

Nemain sat down across from him with a heavy sigh. “I don’t know why I press on.”

Phillip smiled. “Magda burns fewer things than she used to.”

Nemain snorted heartily. “You’re trying to spare her feelings, there’s no doubt about it, and it does you credit, lad, but you know the truth.”

Phillip conceded the point with a reluctant nod. “The char adds flavor, at least.”

“Ha,” Nemain said. “It adds nothing but char, but there you have it. I’ve grown accustomed to the taste, but I try not to taste too often, if you understand me.”

“My father sent wine.” He smiled. “Uncharred.”

“I was hoping you’d say as much,” Nemain said. “Ah, and look at those two little imps who’ve come inside to bring it to us.”

Phillip sighed in spite of himself, but supposed if the lads were to have a proper adventure, they might as well begin it at the hearth of a trio of healers who most considered full-fledged witches. He left the twins manfully agreeing to taste several new concoctions and rose to speak with the mistress of the house. Berengaria stood with him at the door, watching Artane in the not-so-far distance, just as he did.

“It is magnificent,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed.

She smiled up at him. “I believe your father sees to it so well in great part for you.”

“My father sees to it mostly for himself,” Phillip said dryly, “but I can’t blame him. I will likely do the same.” He paused, then leaned back against her doorframe. “Any tidings?”

“About your sword?” Berengaria asked. “None but what we’ve already heard. Rumor has it that it has rested in the hall at Haemesburgh for the past five winters, driven into the floor behind the lord’s chair there so firmly that none can pull it free.”

Aye, the five winters since someone—he didn’t like to think on who that someone was—had removed his sword from his unconscious hand and scampered off with it. As for its resting place, he honestly wouldn’t have been surprised by anything. He looked at Berengaria and smiled dryly. “That bit about the sword in the stone floor sounds like a jongleur’s tale I seem to remember having heard elsewhere.”

“There’s a reason those tales circulate so thoroughly.”

“Not very original, are they?”

“The lads from Haemesburgh?” Berengaria asked, clearly amused. “I daresay not. They don’t seem to be very strong either, or perhaps that is due to something else.” She paused. “Perhaps the blade is rumored to be unremovable from its resting place because ’tis enspelled.”

Phillip knew his mouth had fallen open and it took a bit to retrieve his jaw. “You can’t believe that.”

“I believe many things, my lord, though that surely sounds like something that belongs in a bard’s tale, doesn’t it?”

“The only sounds I hear are the ones that haunt my dreams,” he said darkly, “and those would be the sounds of the blacksmith taking that damned blade and driving it into the lord’s cracked and ruined floor by means of his hammer against the hilt. I shudder to think of what will be required to liberate it.”

“Your grandfather’s sword,” Berengaria said, unnecessarily.

“Given to me at my knighting,” Phillip said, also unnecessarily. “And taken from me whilst I was napping.”

“I believe the tale is a bit more involved than that.”

Phillip shrugged. “It might be, but I forget the particulars.”

“I believe, my lord Phillip, that you have forgotten nothing, which will serve you well in the future. You sword would serve you equally well. Indeed, I’m not sure you will see yourself on the lord’s chair there without it.”

Phillip suspected the same thing, but it wasn’t something he allowed himself to think on very often.

“Now, how may I serve you? I’m assuming you didn’t come here for my blessing on your journey.”

“Unless you’ve a small bag of herbs useful in giving me the stomach to wed a woman I can’t seem to have, aye, that is all I’ve come for.”

Berengaria smiled. “I think, my lord, that you’ll find what you need along the way.”

He almost didn’t dare hope for that. He nodded, then paused before he pushed away from the door. “Enspelled?”

“Is that the word I used?”

He smiled. “Utter rubbish.”

“Most likely.”

He laughed, because she had cured his bumps and bruises and set at least two broken bones that he could remember and she had never sent him off into the fray without a cup of something tasty. He accepted the same, indulged in enjoying a long tradition of imbibing something neither Nemain nor Magda had brewed up, then bid all three farewell. He gathered up his cousins and his men, then started off toward the north.

His sword enspelled?

He snorted and continued on his way.